


departures and arrivals

by delia-pavorum (literaryminded)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: (I Did a Lot of Research), Aviation Themed, Ben Was Dumb But He's Better Now, F/M, Full Redemption Arc in One Short Story, It Takes Place At a Funeral for Pete's Sake, No Offense to La Guardia, Past Issues, Past Love, Past Relationship(s), Rey Made Mistakes Too, Second Chance Romance, The Death Occurs Before the Fic Begins, everything is fine, it's fine though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-01 10:20:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17242496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryminded/pseuds/delia-pavorum
Summary: On the morning of his mother's funeral, Ben Solo receives an unexpected visitor.





	departures and arrivals

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was original published in the Reylo Charity Anthology. See [here](http://reylocharityanthology.tumblr.com) for more info and a rundown of all the money they raised! I was so honoured to be a part of such a great cause.
> 
> All the thanks to Tamara, Kate, and Mar for their like-minded editing practices, common sense, and wisdom. ♥

* * *

He had never been able to get the knot quite right.

Ben Solo untied his tie for the umpteenth time and let out a frustrated huff of air. He could already feel himself sweating and the tepid dawn breeze from the half-opened window did nothing to cool the inferno beneath his skin.

He had honestly thought he was doing okay.

Going through the motions that morning, putting on the suit he’d laid out the night before, attempting to tie his _fucking_ tie—

At work he barely made a passable attempt, going the clip-on route instead. In the past, before that, when it mattered and he’d cared more, he’d had—

_No._

His mind veered away from its proscribed contemplations and, instead, he had the brief, hysterical thought that he could have asked his father for help had he been there. Immediately, his logical brain rejected the melancholic sentimentality of the idea. _As if Han Solo had known how to tie a tie_. The concept itself was ludicrous, borne from the rose-tinted forgiveness of nostalgia. The clip-on tie was practically the staple of Solo men. (Their one true legacy.) If Han  _had_ known how to tie a tie, he would have taught his son how to tie a tie, and Ben Solo wouldn’t be standing there, sweating through the plain white t-shirt underneath his crisp white dress shirt, soon to also be impeded with sweat, struggling, just absolutely wrestling with tying _a goddamn tie_.

With an old, familiar fury—one that had been notably absent for a time, one he hadn't even known he was feeling until the moment it infiltrated his body, filling his lungs in a hot rage, coursing through his bloodstream—he wrenched the offending object off his neck and whipped it across the room with a half-growl, half-grunt of exertion. It landed right at the feet of a person who was standing in the doorway—the one that had been empty mere seconds before—their slight frame silhouetted by the dim haze of cloudy morning light coming in from the hallway.

At first he stared, unseeing, at those feet. Then he blinked twice, hard, and black ankle boots came into focus, as did the slim ankles emerging from them. Shapely calves, encased in fitted black pants, swelling into hips with a slight curve, made more prominent by the way they were angled to the side. A white blouse, half untucked, falling loosely over a petite bust. Narrow shoulders, a bent arm, a small hand resting on a cocked hip. Slim neck, strong jaw, bow-lips. Small nose, freckles. Upturned hazel eyes ( _green when she cries_ ) framed with dark lashes. Her face. Her beautiful, devastating face.

 _Rey_.

It had been three years.

And this was the morning she'd chosen to show up.

“Hi, Ben,” she said softly, bringing her hands together nervously.

If this had been another time, another place, another Rey, another Ben, she would have made a dry comment about his tie or his anger issues or how his problematic knot-tying abilities had something to do with his poor fine-motor skills and obscenely large hands.

They were no longer at that place, though. Pithy remarks, gentle teasing. Three years of radio silence had eliminated all of that.

She scooped up the tie from the floor and took a tentative step forward.

“I—” She cleared her throat. “I know it’s early. I got in late last night and I couldn’t—didn’t sleep and just got ready and came. When I showed up, the front door was unlocked.”

“Came—?” He stared at her blankly. “Just came to... _Ronkonkoma_ _?_ ” he asked incredulously, still unable to believe she was actually there. Standing in front of him. In his mother’s Long Island home.

“Well,” she said on a sigh, dusting an invisible speck off her shirt. “I was close to—I mean, the LIRR was leaving at four-thirty, so I just—” She shrugged helplessly, avoiding his gaze. “Yeah. I came to Ronkonkoma.”

He clenched his jaw and looked away. “Who told you?” he wondered after a beat, his voice deceptively calm, though he was unable ( _unwilling_ ) to keep the hardness out of his tone.

“I, uh, it was mentioned on the news, I believe—” She looked up and caught his hard gaze, swallowing before giving him the real answer. “Poe.”

Ah, yes. Of course.

Poe Dameron.

 _The son she deserved_ , the voices had whispered in the past.

Her right hand, the unwavering strength at her side while Ben had been off building his own career ( _conquering his own demons_ ). Poe _would_ have called Rey, if only just to spite Ben.

“It’s not what you think,” she added, as though reading his mind; an uncanny ability she had always seemed to possess. “He called because Finn was upset and he thought I should know, but he didn’t want to—stir the pot—” She had been fiddling with his tie in her hands the whole time she spoke, but at the last, hazarded a glance up at him. “Don’t be mad at him. At either of them. They did the right thing.”

“Did they,” he drawled, the cool disinterest remaining in his tone as he tugged his tie out of her hands and put it back around his neck.

“Ben.” She took another hesitant step closer to him. “How could you not have gotten in touch with me? You didn’t even tell me she was sick—”

“What was there left to say?” he asked callously, unable to do anything except simmer in his own bitterness. “You’re the one who left, Rey,” he added, as if either of them needed the reminder.

“That—that doesn’t mean I didn’t care!” she spluttered. “That I ever stopped caring!” She looked at him, angry and hurt. “You knew how much I loved—her. _You_. All of it. But I _had_ to go.”

“Yeah,” he scoffed, unable to let go of the hurt. “Had to.”

“Oh, Ben.” She shook her head, sadly. “Have you still not learned? Have you not realized?”

“No. Don’t do that,” he snapped, shaking his finger at her accusatorily, knowing he looked like his mother, yet unable to rein himself in. “Don’t do that thing where I’m always wrong and you’re always right. ‘Have you still not learned’,” he mimicked her, his voice rising an octave, his hard-earned control fraying. “Learned _what_ , Rey? What was this 'lesson' of yours that I failed to grasp, that now allows you the ability to justify the _three years’ worth of silence_ as my punishment?” None of his usual breathing techniques were working to calm him down, so instead he just held his breath and waited for her response.

Her entire body stiffened and she stood up straight, the top of her head still only reaching his chin. She opened her mouth—in preparation, he was certain, of unleashing a fiery retort—before closing it again with an audible click.

He released the breath he’d been holding.

“I’m not doing this with you right now.” She crossed her arms over her chest and looked up at him, her eyes—her lovely, autumn eyes—softening the longer she stared. “I came as soon as I heard, Ben. I took the first plane out and it took me fourteen hours and two stops to get here. I wanted to be here with you, _for_ you. I wanted to be here—” Her voice cracked and she swallowed hard, a sheen in her eyes. “—for her, too. To say goodbye.”

He let out a deep, heavy sigh and looked down at her, silently running his gaze over her face, for the first time taking real stock of her appearance and how she had changed in three years. Certainly tanner, her hair longer and a bit lighter. Slightly thinner now, too; he could see her collarbone in stark relief under the crisp collar of her shirt — _have you been eating? Did you take care of yourself, the way I used to?_ _—_ cheekbones still sharp, but this time without the softness of her cheeks as counterbalance.

 _A true Golden State transformation_ _,_ he thought bitterly; the moment it flittered through his consciousness, however, he realized it wasn’t entirely true. She may have had the markings of a California girl - sun-kissed skin, natural golden highlights, a slim body teetering on the edge of too thin - but, at the end of the day, they didn’t form an accurate personification. She still looked—familiar. Still herself.

Still Rey.

She waited for him to respond, arms crossed, eyes glowing with equal parts sadness and obstinance.

Finally, he reached up and pulled the tie down from around his neck once more.

“Can you help me tie this?” A peace offering. _I don’t want to do this, either._

She stared at him for a beat, before her lips pursed and quirked into a half smile. She took it from him on a sigh, shaking her head.

“Useless,” she muttered, standing on her tip-toes to throw it back around his neck, falling right back into old routines. She brought both ends together and crossed one over the other. “You know,” she murmured, making quick work of it and doing an impeccable job at that, “it isn’t the knot that’s the problem. It’s that you make it too short. You need to compensate for the length from the beginning.” Her eyes glanced up at his quickly, to see if he caught the potential for a double entendre.

He did, though it wasn’t in his nature to comment on it - that was her territory - so he didn’t. Neither did she. Instead, she gave her handywork a tug and smoothed the front down flat.

“There,” she said softly, her eyes wandering over his chest.

He looked down to see a perfect half-windsor, the bottom of the tie skimming his belt buckle.

Without looking up, he asked: “Fourteen hours with two stops?” _You should know better_.

She sighed. “The cheapest flight out of LAX. I needed to economize, because—” She paused and he met her gaze in the extended silence that followed, wondering what she had been about to say. She was worrying her lower lip, as though taking the time to parse her response. Finally, she continued: “Well, it’s a one-way ticket.”

He was stunned into silence. His brain had registered she had said something important, something _vital_ , but it was taking too long to process, the rainbow pinwheel of his mind spinning frantically without actually loading anything.

_One-way ticket._

“You’re staying?” he blurted out finally, a beat or two longer than what could be considered an astute amount of time. “You’re not going back to LA?”

Her lips quivered and she pressed them together tightly, eyes shining. “I—” She blew out a puff of air, a visible attempt to gather herself. “I know you don’t agree with how or why I left. But I needed to do it, for myself. When I came here from London, I had only ever been two places in my life. And after everything—” Her voice quavered. “Everything that happened with _us_ _,_ I just needed to—I needed to go. I needed to leave and find out who I really was, without Finn or you or anyone.” She let out another shaky sigh. “I’m glad I went,” she added on a nod, before meeting his eyes once more. “But it was time to come home.”

“Home,” he echoed.

She let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah, well, sort of, right?” She swiped at an errant tear that had escaped from the eyelashes of her left eye. “Anyway, I left LAX. I liked what I was doing with Boeing in Mechanical Systems Design, but I found a similar—well, shittier, but similar-ish job here, at La Guardia. Mostly MRO, but I get to work with the data and develop plans to resolve service issues—I mean, non-mandatory, but still. It’s fine.” She sniffed. “It’s work.”

“La Guardia?” He couldn’t help the involuntary curl of his lip at the mention of that particular airport. _I saw rats there once_ _._

“ _Yes_ ,” she responded, testily. “And don’t tell me again how you saw rats there once. I wanted to stay with Boeing, they had a spot available. I already found a place in Jackson Heights.”

 _Say something positive._ “Ah.”

She regarded him dryly. “Yeah. I know it’s no Fort Greene," she said, looking at him pointedly, "but it suited me well before, so—” Her look turned wary, filtered through a tinge of longing. “Are you even still—”

“Same place, yup.” _All the stuff you left behind is still there_.

She nodded. “That’s good.” She nodded again, tapped a nervous little beat on her legs, and looked around the room. He followed her gaze, taking in the remnants of his youth—a few pennants and trophies, an errant Radiohead poster, flannel bedsheets. “Been awhile since we’ve been back here.”

He huffed out a laugh. “Yeah.”

Her dimple deepened in her cheek as she shot him a mischievous look. “Remember the time we were here for the weekend and Han—”

He groaned out loud and shook his head, chewing the side of his lip but still unable to stop the smile from creeping out. “Stop.”

Her own smile cracked into a full-on cackle as she covered her face with her hands. “It was weeks before I could look him in the eye again.”

“Thank God I’m big enough to cover you,” he said before he could stop himself and they both came up short, and he knew, he _knew_ the same visual popped into both their heads at the same time—of him covering her, over her, with her under him, cradling him between her thighs, gasps and moans, teeth on an arching neck, hip bones meeting hip bones—

They both cleared their throats simultaneously and looked away, Ben scratching the back of his neck, Rey fiddling with a button on her shirt.

At that precise moment, the sound of the front door opening came from downstairs. They glanced towards the open bedroom doorway as the commotion of people entering the home emerged and a male voice could be heard:

“Just a second, just one—Ben? Ben!”

Poe’s strident cry echoed from the foyer. Before Ben could even process his sudden presence, heavy footsteps came quickly thudding up the stairs. “Ben? Be—oh, here you are. So, Finn and I just got here and it looks like the caterers came. They want to kno—” As he spoke, his eyes landed on Rey and he stopped mid-sentence. “ _Rey_?”

“Hi,” she said, giving a little wave.

“You came!” He bounded over to her and gave her a big hug, wrapping her in his arms. “You ca—wait, you _came_? Didn’t I just call you—wasn’t it yesterday morning?”

“Er—” She glanced quickly at Ben, an inscrutable expression on her face as he once again processed the implications of her expedient arrival.

Finn came into the room at that moment. “Hey! I just told them to put everything on the...counters...for now…” His voice trailed off as he caught sight of Rey as well. “Rey.”

Ben glanced between the two, for once forgetting his own tumult of emotions regarding Rey’s presence in that house.

He knew their backstory, Finn’s and Rey’s, knew the depths of their friendship with one another, and also knew—to an extent—the sense of betrayal Finn had felt when Rey had picked up and left.

Ben hadn’t been the only one who'd remained behind in the dust of Rey's previous life in the city; there had almost been a sense of relief in that—a feeling as though, yes, she left in part because their relationship hadn’t worked out, but she hadn’t only left because of that.

She hadn’t _only_ left him.

When she moved to California she had also left behind Finn, who had been as close to her as a brother since they'd both been teenagers in the foster system in London.

In a strange way, her abandonment of both men had brought them closer together. Whereas before they had been wary acquaintances, three years had created a bond between them; the type of bond that comes from shared misery and the death of certain expectations—for love, for friendship, for the misplaced confidence one has in the people whom they'd thought were the easiest to rely on.  

As the good, close friend he was, Finn could have easily blamed Ben for the demise of Ben’s relationship with Rey - Ben, in his darkest, quietest moments, knew he was almost _solely_ to blame - but the truth of the matter was, the break-up wasn’t one borne from the boisterous, attention-grabbing details a friend would know, or even the quiet, insidious accumulation of misery only a _close_ friend would be privy to.

Nobody cheated or was abusive.

Nobody developed an addiction of any kind.

Nobody fell out of love or into love with another person or into a different _kind_ of love with each other.

No—the break-up came about when goals shifted into two disparate paths and communication changed until it disappeared completely and anger became the default way of expressing _any_ type of emotion - whether it be sadness, or fear, or more anger - and Ben could _feel_ it all slipping through his fingers, could feel himself losing her, yet refused to believe it, to really acknowledge it, until it was too late.

Yes, Finn could have blamed him for all that.

But he hadn’t.

And now, as Ben watched his former girlfriend’s former best friend - her _brother_ , really - struggle with this sudden reappearance of Rey in his life, struggle with knowing what to _do_ , how to respond, how to behave, he felt his heart go out to him.

 _Me, too, buddy_ , he thought, ruefully. _Me, too_.

Rey, for her part, clearly knew the reunion wasn’t an altogether happy one with any of the people currently in Ben’s childhood bedroom, if her pained expression was any indication. In fact, only Poe seemed unaffected by all of it, likely because he was typically fine with everyone and refused to place limitations or strictures on people that would prevent them from fulfilling their potential, regardless of collateral damage.

(Even if the collateral happened to be his boyfriend.)

Poe handled everything, from work to his relationships (romantic or otherwise) with the same combination of egotistical and cavalier.

Ben had never liked him.

Not when he was a mere air traffic controller in his mother’s training team at the NYARTCC, not as he moved up the ranks alongside Leia—subordinate, but with the same upward momentum as Ben’s mother, her Golden Boy, her Yorkie in a purse—“Look at Poe, isn’t he so cute, watch this trick he does”—and especially not after Rey left and everything seemed to click into place for him—

First there was the promotion to Air Traffic Manager when Leia had become the Director of the North East Region, just as Ben’s own piloting career was tanking. Then, came the initiation and establishment of a relationship with Finn, who’d needed someone to fill the gap in his heart that Rey’s absence had left behind, as Ben was coming to terms with the same absence. Prior to all that, perhaps even the catalyst for Ben's real, deep-rooted disdain, was that Poe had been the one who gave the goddamn eulogy at Ben’s father’s funeral, because Ben had been overseas at the time (in hindsight, his absence at Han’s funeral likely its own catalyst for the downward momentum of his relationship with Rey, the sign that his priorities had shifted too far from due north, that something was amiss, but hindsight was twenty-twenty, wasn’t it—)

“Hi, Finn,” Rey greeted with a cautious smile, still appearing aware of the tension in the room, though thankfully unaware of the specific turmoil writhing through Ben’s mind. “You look well.”

“So do you,” he responded, not unkindly; not overly warm either. “I see you got Poe’s message.”

“Yeah,” she said, with a short humourless laugh. “I did.”

“Rey’s moving back,” Ben piped up, not knowing why he said anything at all. When Rey turned to shoot daggers at him with her eyes, he reconsidered his timing even further.

Both Poe and Finn whirled around to look at her, with similar expressions of shock on their faces—Poe’s veering towards surprised delight and Finn’s to wary disbelief.

“You _are_?” Poe exclaimed. “Well, that’s great. Finn, isn’t that great?”

“Yeah, great,” Finn echoed, stiffly.

His marked lack of enthusiasm shouldn’t have - in Ben’s admittedly insensitive opinion - surprised Rey. Her abandonment of Finn, amounting to the occasional phone call after she’d left, had hurt her friend on a visceral level. With Ben at least, she’d had a reason to leave and not stay in touch. But with Finn? Ultimately, he hadn’t expected or appreciated being a casualty in Rey’s quest for self discovery.

Still—his words caused Rey to flinch and the stricken look on her face made Ben want to prostrate himself at her feet while simultaneously gathering her into his arms.

“Hey,” he said softly, almost a reprimand, though he wasn’t sure who it was directed to. His eyes never left her face, now devoid of colour, as she studiously examined the track mark of her boots on the rug that was peeking out from under his bed.

Poe glanced between the three other people in the room, as though just realizing for the first time how they encompassed a trifecta of turmoil.

“Al-riiight,” he dragged the second syllable as he shuffled towards the door. “Listen, Ben, I’ll handle the caterers and get everything set up downstairs. I know how Leia would have wanted things.” Ben had to suppress his eye roll at that statement. “Finn, should we—?” He motioned towards the door, gesturing for both of them to leave.

Finn stared at Rey for another loaded beat, jaw working, eyes distressed but resolute. Rey continued to make patterns with her shoes in the rug, back and forth. After a moment, he released his breath on a heavy exhale, and walked out of the room. Poe followed closely behind him, his hand going to the back of the other man’s neck in a soothing gesture before they were out of sight.

Ben glanced back towards Rey, who appeared to be shrinking before his eyes. He watched as her shoulders hunched and her head drooped down lower.

“Rey—” he began, taking a cautious step towards her, making an attempt to—what? Reassure her? Whatever his intent, all he knew was he couldn’t stand seeing her upset. Even after all this time. Regardless of what they’d been through subsequent to their break up, they’d had five years together that had been the best of his life. He had loved her.

_He would always love her._

The realization came upon him as a slow dawn, an unfurling of light from somewhere deep inside of him—not just a memory, but a reminder of a fact he had always known, yet refused to acknowledge for so long.

He had tried not to think about it for the sake of his broken heart in the three years that he didn’t hear from her. Tried not to wonder and to worry. So he had pushed it down, far down, almost further down than he could reach, and he had buried his head and tried to commit himself to work, to continuing to prove that he could achieve something on his own, a pilot separate from his father, a name in the industry separate from his mother, and it had all imploded on him.

(Because of course it had.)

But this—

He looked at her pale, downturned face, her quivering lip.

Maybe there was something he could do about this.

“Rey,” he tried again, moving closer to her, his hand reaching out.

Before his fingertips could even make contact, her face crumpled and a dam burst.

Her tears were not loud, messy sobs. She wasn’t gasping for breath or devolving into hysterics. But something about them felt heavy—as though they came up from the depths, had been bubbling towards the surface for months—perhaps years—and then, like a geyser, the pressure to contain them had become too much.

Her shoulders shook with the force of them and Ben reached out with his other hand as well, took another step into her space and wrapped both his hands around her biceps, steadying her wilting form.

“Rey,” he said her name for a third time—a soft cry of dismay, a sigh of understanding. He made to draw her in towards his chest—didn’t even realize he was doing it, couldn’t help himself—until she stayed his forward momentum with a hand on his chest. His heart thumped unsteadily under her palm.

Still crying, she sniffed loudly in an attempt to compose herself. “I know I don’t deserve a warm welcome from Finn,” she said eventually, water-clogged and small. “It’s something I’ll have to work on. To earn his trust back.” She lifted her chin slightly, keeping her eyes downcast. “But right now, I’m trying to find the words to say what I want to say to _you_. And all I have—all I’ve ever had—is one question.”

He swallowed and ducked his chin, trying to catch her eyes, which were studiously focused on the knot of his tie. He waited for her to continue, rubbed his hands up and down over her arms once. Maybe twice.

“Why—” Her voice came out as a squeak and she cleared her throat and tried again. “Why was— _he_ more important—than me? Than us? I’ve been trying to figure it out for three years. What was it?”

 _Who_ _?_ he wanted to cry. _Who could_ possibly _have been more important than_ you _?_ _Than what we had_ _?_

But it wasn’t Ben of three years ago asking that question. It was Ben now, Ben who was in his second year of therapy combating anger management issues and internalized feelings of inadequacy. Ben who had lost his position over two years ago and had had to start fresh, moving up the ranks again. Ben, who was lucky he wasn’t in _jail_ , thanks to the good name of his father and the strings his mother pulled to get things hushed up, to get people to be quiet.

Ben had been humbled.

Ben had flown too close to the sun, almost every damn day, literally and figuratively, and eventually his wings had gotten burnt. And it had taken twenty-eight months of clawing and scraping, begging and rebuilding, to become a Ben who—for just a split second, mind you—had forgotten who she was talking about.

Unfortunately, Rey didn’t know this Ben. She only knew the Ben who, by the end of it all, was away three or more weeks out of the month. The Ben who had entombed her in Brooklyn, leaving her to commute over an hour to work each day, while he flew G550s for billionaires—one billionaire in particular—as long as he didn’t ask questions about the precise nature of the business, until one day the questions caught up to him, to all of them—

“Snoke,” he spoke his name out loud for the first time in almost two years, “was _never_ —” He released a hard, shaky exhale, squeezing her arms slightly for emphasis. “—More important than you.”

She was already shaking her head. “You knew…” she said, voice still trembling, eyes and nose running, “you knew how much I needed you and you used it against me—”

“No,” he said ferociously, inadvertently squeezing her arms tighter before quickly releasing them, “no, Rey, no—”

“How pathetic I was,” she continued, her words broken with the depths of her emotion, “to wait. And to wait.” Finally her eyes met his—there they were, vibrant and green, the emotion as clear now as it had been three years ago: heartbreak. Devastation. “Until I couldn’t wait anymore. Not anymore, Ben. I was sick of waiting. I was _done_ _._ ” Her narrowed, watery gaze continued to hold his. “Do you understand? I spent all my life waiting, _you know this_ – for my parents to get their shit together, to come collect me from a broken system, just like they promised they would—”

 _And never did._ He knew. Of course he knew.

“—And then my first adult relationship, my first _real_ —” She cut off, shaking her head, mostly at herself. “And it ended up being the same bloody—”

“ _Do not_ —” _Deep breaths_ _._ “Don’t compare me to them, Rey. Don’t do that,” he pleaded, the anger slowly draining from him as he made conscious inhales and exhales around his words. “I know you’re conflating it all in your head now, but what we had was so much more than that.” He brought his hands up to her shoulders in a soothing stroke. “Please. I know I fucked up. I deserve all of the blame and more. But it’s over now. Everything blew up in my face when you left. I lost—I lost my motivation, my drive.” He shook his head now, losing himself to the past, falling back into the memories.

“He sensed it. He sensed he had lost an ally, someone who would run his errands and not ask questions. Who would turn a blind eye to the transactions going on behind the cockpit. Who wouldn’t ask about no-fly zones and-and fucking _sedition_ and—” He shook his head. “I got out of there, Rey.” He knew he sounded desperate, his hands running down her arms now to grasp at her hands. “I got the fuck out of there, right before shit hit the fan, and if he hadn’t gone down in flames, if the informants hadn’t done their job, and if my—” His voice cracked. “If my mother hadn’t saved my ass, who knows where I’d be now. Jail, maybe. Dead?” He shrugged, his head hanging low. “Who fucking knows.”

He could feel his defenses collapsing, to the point where it was too difficult to continue holding himself together. He looked down at his hands covering hers. They were trembling. On a shaky sigh, he tugged her until he could sit down on his bed. He drew her closer to him and closer still until his forehead rested on her solar plexus; lightly at first, until the weight of everything—the last three years, the one before that, Snoke, his father, Rey, his mother—pressed down on him, causing him to lean more heavily into her. His hands gravitated from her hands to her waist, tightening there and drawing her in even further.

He could sense before he could actually feel her own hands coming towards him hesitatingly. The minute they landed softly on his hair and then—seemingly of their own volition—tugged through the strands, sweeping it back off his face in an achingly familiar gesture, one she had done thousands of times before—the last shard of self-control he had left dissipated and he felt his shoulders shudder violently, the tightness of his throat loosening into one humiliating sob, and then another.

“Shh…”

He could hear her voice above him, crooning softly, one hand clenched in his hair, the other continuing to stroke in a soothing gesture, over his head, down his neck, between his shoulder blades, and then the same path over again.

With his fingers holding her tightly to him, her hands in his hair, he cried. For his mother, gone before anyone expected her to go, strong until she wasn’t anymore. For his father, with whom he had never had the best relationship, but who deserved more than his only child not attending his funeral. For the shattered expectations and illusions of a career gone horribly wrong and all the painstaking recovery thereafter. And for Rey—for lost potential, for stupid mistakes, and for three years that they would never get back.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” he said, voice trembling as he slowly regained his composure. “I’m sorry for making you believe, even for a second, that I was putting Snoke above you. I’m sorry for the way things ended. And I’m sorry for never telling you Leia was sick and you having to find out she died from Poe. I know—I know you loved her. I should have given you the chance to be here, in the end.” He shook his head, suddenly exhausted. “I’m just so damn sorry for all of it.”

“Ben,” she said gently, bringing both hands to his face and tilting his head to look up at her. He obliged, seeing her serene face, tears still running down her cheeks, a funny smile quirking her lips. “I knew.”

 _I knew_.

The words hung heavy in the air. What—

“What do you mean—” He shook his head in an attempt to clear it. “What do you mean you knew?”

She sighed and looked away, before meeting his gaze once more. “I knew. I knew she was sick. I didn’t know to the extent, but—well. It’s part of the reason why I made plans to come back. I wanted to be here for the end. But Leia—typical Leia,” she said, ruefully. “I guess she had her own plans.”

“But how—” Slowly he shook his head again, still staring at her guileless face. “How did you know?”

She gave him a sheepish half-smile, barely a quirk, evident only in the dimple deepening in her cheek. “We spoke, Ben. Leia and I. For three years we spoke. At least a few times a month.”

He absorbed this information, waiting for the typical, familiar rage to sweep over him at the thought of being so deceived. For three years, his mother had _lied_ to him. Had been talking to Rey behind his back, knowing how upset he was by the break up, how much he needed—

He paused.

What _had_ he needed?

If he had known his mother was communicating with Rey, he would have tried his damnedest to intercept the calls, to get messages to her, to find out as much as he could about where she was, what she was doing, and how he could get her back. Would he have been able to focus as much on getting out, away from Snoke? On the rebuilding of his career as a regular airline pilot rather than a private pilot with an equivocal salary? On his therapy, working out the issues that caused the problems to begin with—his need for perfection, the inability to thrive in the shadow of his parents, to control the ever-present rage constantly roiling beneath the surface…

It was that rage he waited for now, the familiar heft of it to burden his heart, to invade his lungs. Instead, he looked up at Rey, at her sweet face, fresh and artless and so dear to him, and instead—instead waited for her to explain. With an open mind and an open heart.

“I couldn’t—” She swallowed hard. “It was too difficult to cut everyone off completely. I tried. I honestly did. I needed the fresh start and I couldn’t have old emotions...muddying it up. But Leia—” She laughed ruefully. “You know your mother. Long after you stopped trying to call and Finn gave up, too, she persisted. And she was relentless. Eventually I gave in, because—” Her lips trembled. “Well, she was my connection. My one link to home.” Her eyes met his. “To you.”

She stroked his cheek softly, seeming almost unaware that she was even doing it, and he leaned into her touch.

“So I allowed myself this one thing. Those conversations were my lifeline. She told me about Snoke, the details I hadn’t heard about or read in the news. She told me about the therapy sessions and what you were doing now with commercial flying, how you were constantly being put on reserve, but you kept your head down and you persevered—”

Her strident tone made her pride in him evident, even as she talked about his lowest moments. He rested his chin on her stomach, wrapping his hands around her back, stroking softly as she spoke.

“And…” She paused, both her words and her hands stilling. “And she told me when she got sick. A year ago.” She looked up, lost in the memories. “I almost came back then and there. But she insisted she was fine, you were totally fine with all of it, that she had everything under control, and that the prognosis was good—the doctors had given her over five years, maybe more with the proper treatments.”

Ben was already shaking his head. “It’s not true. We knew it was worse than that. She—” Realization dawned slowly. “She purposely kept you away.”

“But _why_?” she whispered, devastation clear in her face.

Ben knew. His mother had been holding Rey off for his sake. If she had come back a year ago, even six months ago, it would have been too soon. Too soon for—

He shook his head, helpless to stop the disbelieving laugh from escaping. _That wily, old_ _—_

Even in death, she was micromanaging his life.

“Just trust that she knew what she was doing,” was all he said. He placed a soft kiss on her belly, through her silk shirt. “You’re here now.” It was a statement of fact and wonderment at the same time, as though he still couldn’t believe it.

“I am here,” she confirmed. “Ben. I’m _here._ ” Her meaning was clear. “I hate that it had to be for-for this. And I hate that I didn’t get back soon enough,” her voice cracked and her eyes flooded with tears. “But I’m here now.” She cupped his face in her hands again and crouched down until they were eye level. “I want to be here for you today.”

He brought his own hands up to her face, stroking her cheeks, running his fingers through her hair, drawing her close to him and closer still. The pull was inextricable. No more could he stop the rotation of the earth than he could the movement of his lips towards hers. He drew her in, hand behind her head, until they tentatively touched mouths for the first time in over three years.

Their sighs co-mingled as they simultaneously deepened the kiss, his hands tightening in her hair, her arms going around his neck and squeezing. Their heads tilted in perfect unison, lips gliding, tongues stroking. It was soft, warm, familiar.

It was a revelation. It was home.

She moaned softly into his mouth and moved onto his lap and it took every fibre of his being to not grasp her and throw her down on the bed, to rip off her clothes and take her the way he used to, her legs wrapping around his hips, nails scoring down his back, meeting him thrust for thrust. It took all his strength not to lie back himself, let her undress him and ride him the way _she_ used to, hips rolling, breasts at the perfect angle for his hands—

He tore his mouth away before he ended up doing just that—one or a combination of both—the morning of his mother’s funeral with caterers and friends downstairs.

“Rey,” he rasped, kissing her cheek, pulling her head to his shoulder. She wrapped her arms around his back and tightened them and they sat there for a minute, just like that, ragged breaths matching in every inhale and exhale, hearts thumping a simultaneous erratic beat.

“Let’s go downstairs,” he whispered against her ear.

She nodded jerkily and pulled away, sniffling. “Alright.” She stood up and smoothed her hair, her clothes, running hands that shook ever so slightly over her body. “Alright.” Her voice came out stronger the second time. “Let’s go.” She held her hand out to him and gave him a tremulous smile. “Let’s do this.”

He smiled back up at her, heart swelling, feeling the tug of it at the corners of his lips, feeling—for the first time in a long time—something new to him, something foreign.

Hope.

He took her hand in his, enveloping her smaller one with his larger one. Their fingers linked naturally, automatically, and she began to tug him out of the room. As he walked out with her, his eyes caught on a framed photo collecting dust on his old dresser.

In the photo, he and Leia stood together, him towering over her, yet her presence as commanding as if she’d been three feet taller. It was the day he’d graduated from aviation school. Their faces appeared to hold identical expressions—at first glance, they both looked stoic, almost grim. On closer inspection, however, although Ben was undoubtedly serious—earnest in his acquisition—a telltale quirk was evident on Leia’s lips. It was as though she held a private joke within her; like she knew something about her serious son that even he had yet to discover.

Maybe she did.

Maybe, Ben suspected, she always had.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://delia-pavorum.tumblr.com) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/delia_pavorum)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] Departures and Arrivals](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18625234) by [The Audio Awakens (bettertoflee)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bettertoflee/pseuds/The%20Audio%20Awakens)




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